


Have to Explode

by locketaroundyourthroat



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bipolar Disorder, F/M, Gen, M/M, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-12
Updated: 2018-07-12
Packaged: 2019-06-09 06:37:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15261570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/locketaroundyourthroat/pseuds/locketaroundyourthroat
Summary: Mickey deals with the fall out of Ian's suicide attempt.Set about 5 years after season 4, not compliant with later seasons





	Have to Explode

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Mountain Goats song of the same name.

 

The harsh smell of bleach burnt Mickey’s nose and made his eyes water. He sat back on his knees and dragged his sleeve over his forehead, collecting sweat and snot and tears into the bunched up folds of his sweater. Every time Mickey plunged the sponge back into the dirtying water, it stung his skin. He sort of liked the pain; it grounded him. He sprayed more of the bleach cleaner onto the bathroom floor and scrubbed at the tile’s grout with red-tinged water.

“You sure you don’t want help?” Mandy said from the doorway. He looked over his shoulder at his sister. She was wearing one of Ian’s t-shirts, the black one with an eight ball on it. For a moment, Mickey got lost in remembering times he’d locked his hands into the sides of that shirt and pulled. Pulled it off Ian, pulled him closer, pulled and pulled and pulled. Red hair and harsh teeth against his neck.

“Mickey?” It was still Mandy. “God, it fucking reeks in here. You should take a break. Get out of the fumes, at least. Let me take over.”

In the next room, the kids’ show on the television went to commercial and Yevgeny ran towards them. Five years old and screeching, “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” Mandy caught him at the door. She wrapped her arm around his chest. There were four dark brown bruises on Mandy’s arm like fingerprints. Mickey wondered who the fuck was messing with her now, but then he remembered himself the night before, his hand wrapped around her forearm like a vice in the hospital waiting room.

“Christ, just keep him fucking out of here.” Mickey yelled. “He doesn’t need this shit in his head.” Mickey didn’t know if he meant the fumes, or the sight of blood on the bathroom floor. Mandy took Yevgeny back into the living room and Mickey scrubbed the floor to the sound of his son telling Mandy how to play soldiers. Spray, spray, scrub, scrub, scrub, wipe, wipe, rinse, and repeat.

“No,” Yev whined not too long after. “That’s not how Ian does it.”

“Shut up,” Mandy told him.

“I want to play with Ian,” The kid was on the edge of a fit; Mickey could hear it in his voice.

“Well, Ian isn’t here.” Mandy barked.

But Ian was here, Mickey thought. His shirt on Mandy’s back and his games in Yev’s head, and his blood all over the bathroom floor. Mickey could clean for days and he wouldn’t be able to wash Ian out of this place. He’d grown into the walls the way he’d grown into Mickey. He was like some big fucking tree whose roots spread out and covered every living thing until it was all just him, and his smile and his laugh and his pills and his body and his love. And his blood. His blood everywhere.

They had found out that getting the right medication cocktail wasn’t a once and done deal. Ian could be fine for months and then lose it in a second. The balance was delicate as an eggshell and once it was going wrong it was nearly impossible to stop. Six months ago, Ian had started having massive panic attacks every time he left the house. He’d stayed up nights with Mickey and cried about batty Sheila, who had been trapped in her house for years. “This is how it starts,” Ian had said. “This how the real crazy starts.” And Mickey had held him, but thought to himself, how were the four years before not real crazy. Ian’s doctor adjusted one of his meds to help with his anxiety, but it swung too strong the other direction.

“I don’t feel anything.” Ian had told him one night in bed. “I know that I love you, but I can’t feel it.” So Mickey had pressed close and pulled and pulled and tried to teach Ian how to feel again by using his body. But Ian only got half hard in Mickey’s hand and it didn’t get much better with his mouth. When he looked up, Ian had zoned out entirely.

With Mickey’s face above his, Ian came back. “Sorry.” Mickey wondered if Ian would cry if he could feel.

Mickey lay back down beside Ian. His eyes were stinging with enough tears for both of them. “You can’t help it.”

Mickey had been doing this long enough that he knew what Ian’s mania looked like. He knew the look in his eyes and the zing in his skin, and he should have done something when Ian was suddenly so full of life again, after weeks of what his doctors called “stability” and Mickey called “zombie”. He was bounding all over the house, and playing with Yev, going running with Fiona, and fucking Mickey into the mattress. He even bought Carl this huge ass drum set for his birthday. The two of them spent hours in the basement of Fiona’s house banging around on it and Ian was spurting out ideas about music and learning to play the guitar. Mickey knew Ian was off his meds, and he didn’t need to see the still-full pill bottles to prove it. He knew and he did nothing, so it was his fault that it all went to shit.

When the water in the bucket became more like blood, Mickey took it outside and dumped it over the side of the porch. The red water spilled out over the second-day snow, turning the ice pink.

“Mickey, hey,” Fiona Gallagher was coming up his street, wrapped in a thick coat and rubbing her gloved hands together in front of her face. Ice went through Mickey’s stomach. He and Fiona had never fully warmed to each other, but Ian was their common ground.

Mickey dropped the bucket down on the porch and fished a pack of smokes from his back pocket. “They gonna let me in to see him yet?” He called to Fiona.

“Christ, it’s cold.” She said as she climbed up onto the porch. She eyed the bucket and pointedly looked away from the pink snow by the railing. “No, they’re keeping it pretty locked down. They let me see him, but it was only for a minute.”

“Yeah?” Mickey plucked a cigarette from the pack and tucked it between his lips before offered the pack to Fiona.

Fiona shook her head. “I can’t.” She put a hand on her stomach, which was rounder than he’d ever seen it. Mickey shoved the pack into his pocket. He wondered when she’d gotten knocked up and how he hadn’t heard about that, or even noticed. It seemed like the kind of thing Ian would have thrown a fucking parade for. “They gave him a blood transfusion and put him back on his meds, but they still have him sedated.”

“They call Dr. Rosenthal?” Mickey asked. He found a lighter sitting on a shelf of the bookcase that had somehow found a home on their porch, and lit up.

“Yeah,” Fiona pulled at her hair. “She was there when I left. She’s changing up some stuff, again.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “Can we go inside? It’s freezing.”

Mickey breathed out smoke slowly, his eyes trained on Fiona’s baby bump. He didn’t know what else Mama Gallagher could want from him, but it never meant good things. But she had what he needed, claim as Ian’s former legal guardian and a family relation, while he had shit, and no way to prove that he was Ian’s and Ian was his. He had ink on his skin, Ian’s name like an actual fucking brand over his heart. But hospitals didn’t take tattoos as proof of relation, so Mickey was stuck playing nice with Mama Bear Bitchy until he got Ian home again.

Mickey tossed the cigarette into the yard and grabbed up the edge of the bucket as he moved toward the door. Fiona followed him into the house. Yev was in front of the television again. There was a blackened grilled cheese sandwich on a paper plate in front of him and Mandy was sitting on the kitchen counter, smoking out the window.

“She shouldn’t be in here,” Mandy said. She tossed her smoke and jumped off the counter. “That bleach smell will hurt the baby.”

“Fuckin’ thing has got a lot worse coming at it from the gene pool.” Mickey pushed past her to the hallway, tossed the bucket into the bathroom and closed the door. “That good enough?”

Fiona was sitting at the table in the dining room. Ian’s stuff was spread out all over the table. Half-finished study guides, notebooks covered in scribbles, and textbooks open to random pages. “Was he gonna take the GED?” She asked him.

Mickey took a seat, “Said he was. It never would have happened.”

Mandy came in then and handed Fiona a cup of coffee. “You want coffee, Mick?”

“Isn’t that supposed to be bad for the fucking baby, too? Caffeine or some shit?” He rubbed at his face, his hands smelled like bleach. “Whatever. This what you come here to talk about? School and pregnancy?”

Fiona pursed her lips and gave him an exhausted look. “No, I wanna talk about Ian.”

“How is he?” Mandy asked. She tugged at the sleeve of her t-shirt. Mickey wondered if she knew that it was Ian’s and if she’d worn it on purpose so that she could smell him all day, like Mickey had. He had one of Ian’s shirts under his sweater, felt it against his skin every time he moved. Ian, Ian, Ian, Ian. That name, like a heartbeat, like a prayer, like a curse.

“He’s tired.” They were all tired. They had been tired for years and rest was no closer now than it had been before. Fiona took off her winter gloves and tucked them into her pockets. She wrapped her hands around the coffee mug. “He asked for you, though.” She said to Mickey, but Mickey kind of doubted it. He doubted Ian had said a word. “They said he’ll be there at least a week, though. Want him to be a little more balanced.”

“He only had to stay 72 hours last time,” Mandy said. Mickey hated that there was a last time. Last time was his fault too, and Fiona knew it.

“It’s different this time, I guess.” Fiona took a sip of her coffee. Mickey watched the warmth go through her as she relaxed back into the chair. Mickey eyed her stomach and tried to guess how far along she was, maybe six months. “Mickey,” She pulled his attention back up. “Ian needs stability.”

Mickey almost laughed. He wondered if all those cleaning fumes had gone to his head, because he wanted to laugh and laugh and put Fiona Gallagher out on her ass, but that wasn’t going to happen.

Mickey pulled out his pack of cigarettes and lit up. Fuck the baby. “We’ve had this conversation before.”

They’d done this dance too many times. Fiona wanted Ian in hospitals, she wanted him with a different doctor, she wanted him to live with her, she wanted him to shrink back to being a child so she could raise him all over again and not fuck it up by ignoring him after he turned 11. Mickey always won, because his dedication to Ian didn’t waver just because he had something else going on. Fiona wanted to be Ian’s caregiver in the same way Monica wanted to be his mother, passionately, but only for a moment. Fiona liked to swoop in when it had all gone to shit and point out all Mickey’s fuck ups so no one would notice she hadn’t even called Ian in weeks.

“It’s different now,” Fiona sat forward. “He sliced his wrists open. He nearly bled out.”

“I fucking know that.” Mickey tapped his ash into the tray. There was dried blood under his fingernails.

“I just think he’d be better off with me for a while. I mean, I raised him more than our parents did.” She pulled at her hair again.

“I’m the only stability he needs.” Mickey got up and went into the kitchen. Fiona was slower to her feet, but she followed. He sucked deeply on his cigarette, talked through his smoke. “You can’t watch him close enough, not with a baby, too.”

“I’m not due for months. And you had Ian and a baby a few years ago.” She put her hands on her hips. It made her stomach look bigger.

“You know it’s not all just sitting next to his bed and holding his hand, right? What are you going to do if he comes at you?” Mickey waved a hand at her, raised his eyebrows.

“He wouldn’t hurt me.” Fiona shook her head but her eyes got bigger and softened.

“Yeah?” Mickey snarled. He moved closer, tilted his head up, and pointed to a blue bruise on his jaw. “He did that two nights ago, cause I told him to take his meds.” That was not the only thing Mickey had said, and Mickey had kind of wanted to punch himself that night, too.

Fiona’s eyes watered a little. Mickey wanted to roll his eyes. He’d had too many of these fucking Gallaghers crying in his kitchen over the years. “Ian wouldn’t,” She said.

“Yeah, well, he’s not always himself.” Mickey crushed his cigarette against ashtray on the counter. ”He’s sick. This is what happens. It’s a fucking mess, but we do it. Me and him.”

“We’re his family,” Fiona said, but she was wiping at her eyes with the edges of her sleeves.

“So am I. And this is his home.” Mickey pulled a beer from the fridge and twisted the top off. “If you’ve got nothing else, you should go. I’ve still got blood to mop up.” Mickey gulped at the beer and pushed back through the house to the bathroom. He slammed the door behind him, locked himself in with all the fumes and the blood.

Two nights ago, Mickey woke up without Ian beside him. Mickey bolted from their bed and searched the house for Ian, and then Yevgeny when he found he was gone too. He was about to wake up Mandy, or call the police, or the fucking Gallaghers or something, but then both of Mickey’s boys came bursting through the front door, shaking off snow and laughing too loud.

“Hey,” Ian said, when he saw him up, a big smile like a puppy splitting his face in half. Ian kissed him, big and sloppy, and Mickey tried not to be pissed. “First snow of the year, we couldn’t wait.”

“We made a snow man,” Yev said. Mickey watched his son try to struggle out of his coat. “You wanna see it, Daddy?”

Mickey knelt in front of Yevgeny and helped him unzip his coat with shaking hands. “Later, okay? You gotta get to bed, you have school tomorrow.” Mickey heard Ian leave the room and heard him rooting around in the fridge.

“It’s kindergarten.” Yev said through a yawn. “No one takes it seriously.”

Mickey smiled in spite of himself and ran a hand through his kid’s hair, floppy and black, like his when he was a kid. “Yeah, I know. But you have to teach that half-sized douche bag a thing or two, yeah? What’s that kid’s name? The one who pushed you down?”

“Caleb. He said my name was weird.” Yev said with another yawn.

Mickey stood up. “Yeah, that fucker. You gotta have plenty of sleep to kick ass, right?” Yev threw a few little punches at his dad’s stomach, imitating what he’d been taught, until Mickey shoved him towards his room. “Bed, now.”

Ian was leaning against the kitchen counter with a beer in his hand. Mickey crossed the room and took the beer from him, took a sip.

“Please don’t be pissed.” Ian said. “I just thought it would be fun. Everything’s fine.”

Everything was so far from fine, but Ian didn’t know that. Mickey looked at him in the pale light that had crept through the kitchen window from the streetlamp outside to play on Ian’s face. His eyes were too wide, nearly crossed. Mickey took a deep breath and another sip from the beer. So sick. So fucking sick.

“You need to go back on your meds.” Mickey said and he felt the air change.

Ian didn’t say anything, but his shoulders had moved up and forward, his hands gripping the kitchen counter, the set of his mouth downturned. Nothing pissed him off quite as much as talking about his pills. He was still and waiting, a ticking bomb.

“You can’t keep flying off the handle like this,” Mickey said.

“Jesus, Mickey. Nothing happened.” Ian crossed his arms, tensing further. Mickey wondered when he’d explode.

“Don’t bullshit me here, alright? You can’t do this to Yev or Mandy, or your family.” _To me. You can’t do this to me._ Mickey pulled from the beer again, and then set it down. He had a feeling it was about to get ugly.

A dark laugh came from the back of Ian’s throat. He pushed away from the counter and turned on Mickey. “And what am I doing, exactly? I thought we were having fun.” He shrugged, a nasty smirk coming across his face. “Seemed like you were having a pretty good time with my cock up your ass last night.”

Mickey sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Ian,” he said like a warning, but it was fuel for Ian.

He moved in and got nose to nose with Mickey. His voice was loud, almost yelling. “What? Just say whatever the fuck you’re not saying.”

Mickey was sure the whole house was awake now. Lying in their beds, watching the shadows move across the ceiling to the soundtrack of fighting in the kitchen. Mickey knew this, had grown up to that soundtrack, so had Mandy. He didn’t want that for Yevgeny.

“Keep your fucking voice down, will ya? The kid’s asleep.” Mickey hissed but Ian was still rolling, words too fast and too loud.

“I don’t need you to tell me that I’m fucking crazy, Mick, I’ve got that one figured out. And Christ knows you’re on you way out. Gonna dump me in some fucking institution where they can wire me up and shock the crazy out of me, yeah? Is that where we go from here?”

“This middle of the night shit,” Mickey yelled over Ian. “Running off with the kid, not taking your fucking meds?” Ian finally quieted, but he’s arms were tense by his sides. Mickey knew what was coming. “That’s the kind of shit you told me about your mom doing, Ian.”

Air barked from Ian’s throat. “What?”

Mickey knew he should have stopped, but he didn’t. “You’re acting like your goddamn mother.”

Mickey felt the pain in his jaw before he even saw Ian swing. “Fuck,” he cursed, his hands coming up instinctively to shove Ian away.

Ian was all over him—worried hands and “Mickey, Mickey, Mickey, Mickey. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Jesus, what the fuck was I thinking? I’m really, really sorry.” But Mickey shoved Ian off again. He touched his mouth and came back with blood.

“Shit.” He wet a rag and pressed it against his lip.

“Mick,” Ian was fluttering at Mickey’s back, testing how close he could get before backing away again, like trying to pet a wild dog.

“Leave it, alright?” Mickey couldn’t face Ian. He needed time. He needed to think. He needed his hands to quit shaking. “Just go to bed, Ian.”

Mickey stayed at the sink with the rag pressed to his mouth until he heard Ian leave. He did not think about the last time, he did not let himself jump at the sound of the El going by. He drank the rest of the beer and smoked a cigarette. He went to their bed. Ian was awake on his side of the bed, watching the wall. He didn’t move when Mickey came in, so Mickey laid down on the other edge of the bed. Neither of them slept, but neither of them said a word. Mickey wondered how much longer they could do this.

The bathroom was the cleanest it had probably ever been. Mickey had scrubbed it until the whiteness hurt his eyes, and then he cleaned some more. His skin felt raw and his insides felt shredded.

He spent the afternoon smoking and drinking while marathoning the Harry Potter movies with Yev, and Mandy, until she had to go to work. Mickey fell asleep during Goblet of Fire and woke up to his son sitting on his chest while the credits to Half-Blood Prince rolled behind them. He made pizza bagels for dinner, and then helped Yev get a bath and pack his stuff. Svetlana came to pick him up when she had finished her shift at her legitimate job at a nail salon.

Yev clung to his dad when Svetlana said it was time to leave. “We can’t leave Daddy all alone. He’s sad.”

“What is wrong?” Lana asked Mickey.

“I’m fine, buddy.” Mickey pried off his son and pushed him towards his mother. “It was just—Ian.” Mickey said to Svetlana.

“What happened?” She asked. Yevgeny grabbed at Svetlana’s hand with both of his small hands.

Mickey rubbed at his chin. “There was a, uh, an accident last night.”

“Accident?” Svetlana asked.

“He cut his arms.” Yevgeny said. He tucked his head against her leg. Svetlana bent down to his level and swept his hair off his forehead. “Is he gonna be okay?” Yevgeny asked.

Svetlana looked to Mickey. He hooked one hand onto the back of his neck and nodded. “Yeah, Ian’ll be fine, buddy.”

“There was a lot of blood.” Yev said. “And then it was loud and there were people here and they took Ian.” His small chin wobbled and then he started crying

Svetlana picked him up and held him close. She spoke quietly to him in Russian.

“I tried to keep him away,” Mickey ran a hand through his hair. “It all just happened so fast.”

“Why you not call me?” Lana asked. She bounced Yev on her hip and petted a hand through his hair. “I would have come to get Yevgeny.”

“You had the night shift at the diner.”

“Fuck night shift. Ian is my family, too.”

“I know,” Mickey dug the palms of his hands into his eyes. “Shit.”

Svetlana took Mickey’s hand, ran her thumb over his the ‘FUCK’ tattoo. They had divorced two years ago, right after Terry went away for good, but their friendship had lasted.

Mickey followed Svetlana out to her car and watched as she clicked Yevgeny into his booster seat. “Bye, Daddy.” Yev said. Mickey ducked down into the open door when Svetlana stepped back. He ruffled his kid’s hair and told him he’d see him next week. He let his ex-wife pet his hair and kiss his cheek and promised to call her. Then he went back inside.

The empty house crawled around Mickey. He got drunker than he should have and puked in the shiny clean bathroom. He passed out crumpled in the same corner between wall and tub where Ian had been the night before, shaking and crying while Mickey pressed towels to his wrists and screamed for Mandy. He dreamed of the bleeding not stomping and the paramedics not getting there, and of drowning in Ian’s blood.


End file.
